


Thirst

by fluxweed



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, Blood, Blood Drinking, Drarry Discord Writers Corner Drabble Challenge, Explicit Sexual Content, HP Kinktober 2020, M/M, Oral Sex, Vampire Harry Potter, Vampire Sex, Vampires, so much blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:01:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26877091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluxweed/pseuds/fluxweed
Summary: The path of Malfoy’s scent is obvious; Harry hasn’t fed for days, so his senses are sharp. Deadly.And Malfoy smells sogood.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 58
Kudos: 392
Collections: HP Kinktober 2020





	Thirst

**Author's Note:**

> The first 325 words of this is a drabble written for the September 2020 Drarry Discord Drabble Challenge (prompt: journey). The rest is gratuitous vampire smut.
> 
> Huge thanks to [Lep](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughingd0g) for the amazing beta (on both the drabble and its expansion) and [Lily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/triggerlil/works) for the readthrough + the [HP Kinktober prompts](https://hpkinktober.tumblr.com/) that gave me the gift of an upload deadline. 😅

Harry has been tracking Malfoy for hours. The journey has taken him from Munich, through Rosenheim, and now to here, a dark street in outer Salzburg. 

He’s close. Malfoy’s scent is rich like wine, smooth like chocolate. Harry’s throat aches.

He hasn’t fed for days, testing his limits, sharpening his senses. It’s effective – the path of Malfoy’s scent is obvious, as if his blood is splattered over the cobblestones, a dark trail leading straight to him. But after a night of following it, the aroma becoming ever more potent, Harry is desperately, ferociously thirsty.

The trail ends at a tavern tucked down an alleyway, dim golden light spilling through murky windows. The tavern door is heavy. Harry pushes it open easily. 

The smell slams into him. Malfoy is on a stool at the bar, long fingers wrapped around a half-filled tumbler. The torchlight flickers over the delicate veins of his wrist. Harry is so _thirsty_.

He’s behind Malfoy before anyone sees him move. He smells the spike of alarm a millisecond before he sinks his fangs into Malfoy’s throat.

Sweet ecstasy bursts forth. Harry growls and sucks hard, drowning, dizzy. Malfoy moans, his building arousal hot and heady in Harry’s mouth. Malfoy’s blood rushes through him, warming his body, filling his cock.

“Careful,” Malfoy hisses. “Or there won’t be any left.”

The words barely penetrate the fog of bloodlust, but the metallic tang of fear on Harry’s tongue pierces through. He wrenches himself away.

The barman stares at Harry in horror. Harry licks his lips. 

“How did I do?”

“Your fastest yet. Five hours and twenty-three minutes.” Malfoy touches his neck and winces. “But maybe we left it too long between feeds.”

Malfoy’s skin is smeared with sumptuous red. Harry is transfixed.

“You have a room here, right?”

“Of course.” Malfoy stands, steadies himself. “Come and find me in five minutes.” He smirks, and for a moment Harry feels like he’s the prey. “I’ll be waiting.”

* * *

Harry offers the stricken barman an awkward “ _Entschuldigung_ ,” and leaves as quickly as he entered. For the first time all night, the air is cool on his skin. Malfoy’s blood has warmed him.

He shakes from the effort of keeping himself in control. There’s a misty sheen over his senses; he’s barely aware of the cobblestones under his feet, the smattering of stars above him, the rough stone of the wall he braces himself on.

He waits as long as he can. It’s not quite five minutes. It probably isn’t even three. But any longer and he’ll risk ripping the door off its hinges in his desperation to get upstairs.

It’s easy to find Malfoy’s room. Inside, the decor is simple. Rustic. The mustiness of the furniture is barely perceptible, overpowered by the intensity of Malfoy’s scent. There’s another smell – bitter, medicinal – and Harry focuses on the bedside table, on which sit three phials of Blood-Replenishing Potion. He frowns.

“You haven’t drunk any.”

Malfoy shakes his head.

Harry is still trembling with restraint. “But I already took more than usual.”

“I know,” Malfoy says. “But you don’t like the taste.”

It’s true. The potion muddies the rich flavour of Malfoy’s blood, muffles it, makes it taste _wrong_.

“You’re being stupid,” Harry says. Even so, he can’t stop himself from taking three slow, prowling steps towards Malfoy. “You know I can’t control it. Not when it’s been this long. Not when you smell so _good_.”

Malfoy raises his chin. “That’s my decision.”

The collar of Malfoy’s shirt is red and wet. Harry’s eyes rake over it, over the dried blood on his neck, the two small puncture marks – already healed.

He leans in, has closed the distance between them without realising. He’s mesmerised. Malfoy’s breathing is uneven – quietly so, small, tight inhalations that most wouldn’t notice. Each one sends desire searing through Harry, narrows his focus, until he’s no longer aware of the murmur of chatter from the tavern downstairs, nor the sounds of life from surrounding rooms. He’s only aware of Malfoy. Malfoy’s sounds. Malfoy’s smell. Malfoy’s _taste_ …

“You were so slippery this time,” Harry murmurs. Talking helps to keep himself in check, helps to remind him that he’s still a person with a brain, even if he no longer has a heart. “I almost lost you halfway through. What did you do? Did you fly?” 

“Yeah.” Malfoy clears his throat. “Yes. I’m rather miffed it didn’t work, actually. I didn’t expect you for another few hours.” He does sound miffed, and his nose wrinkles, and Harry locks his limbs against the urge to _bite, take_.

“It wouldn’t have worked if we hadn’t left it so long.” If Harry hadn’t been so desperate, on such a knife edge of thirst, he wouldn’t have been able to follow Malfoy’s trail as it drifted higher, as the air got thinner, as the wind got stronger. But the longer he goes between feeds, the sharper he becomes. The deadlier he becomes. 

Malfoy’s collar is still wet. It’s wet, and the scent is maddening.

“Malfoy,” Harry says. His voice is different, lower, melodious. Malfoy blinks slowly and drops his gaze to Harry’s mouth.

“What are you waiting for, Potter?” he sneers – tries to sneer. 

With the strange musical note in his voice, Harry could ask anything of Malfoy, and Malfoy would give it. Harry could drain Malfoy of every drop of blood (a thrill shoots through him at the thought) and Malfoy would let him, would want him to, would beg for it.

Harry holds himself very, very still.

“Listen, I really don’t know if I can,” he says, and his voice cracks, sounds human again. “We haven’t left it so long before. I think you should take the potion.”

“Luckily, I’ve never cared the slightest bit what you think,” Malfoy says loftily, then swoops forwards and kisses him. 

Harry’s throat _burns_. His muscles scream with the effort of keeping still, but stupid, suicidal Malfoy presses closer, licks at Harry’s lips, and Harry is powerless against the warmth of him, the wet of him, the _taste_ of him. 

Nothing tastes as good as Malfoy’s blood. Nothing – not the Thirst-Quenching Draughts Harry forces down, not the Bicorn blood he buys for fifteen Sickles a pint, and certainly not any actual food. But if anything were to come second to the soaring ecstasy of Malfoy’s blood, it’s the taste of his mouth.

Despite his best efforts, Harry is swept away. He does what he can, fights to keep his body frozen, but he can’t stop himself from opening his mouth for more. Can’t stop himself from loosening one arm so his hand can rise to Malfoy’s waist, push up his shirt and rest – just rest, but trembling from the effort of it – against the soft skin of Malfoy’s hip.

And Malfoy shivers – imperceptible to most, but not to Harry. And Malfoy tilts his head and deepens the kiss. And Malfoy – stupid, suicidal Malfoy – deliberately slides his tongue into Harry’s mouth and flicks it against the sharp point of Harry’s fang.

Harry’s vision goes black. He has Malfoy pinned against the wall in half a blink of an eye. Malfoy opens his mouth to gasp, but Harry is on him before his sluggish human senses have caught up, and the sound is swallowed by Harry’s mouth before it can begin. Blood drips from Malfoy’s tongue, pools underneath it, and Harry forces Malfoy’s head back and laps it up, draws Malfoy’s tongue into his own mouth and sucks. It’s only a scratch, the flow of blood already slowing, but each drop shoots through Harry like hot, pure magic. Harry growls, sucks until the trickle is more of a torture than a tease. He tears himself away.

He doesn’t need to breathe, but he’s panting – an automatic, human response. He wants to drag his nails over Malfoy’s skin and watch the blood blossom to the surface. He wants to lift Malfoy – it’s so easy to lift him now, and Malfoy whimpers at every display of inhuman strength – and take him, fuck him, bite him, while Malfoy clings to him, not able to escape, not wanting to even if he could.

Malfoy clutches Harry’s shoulder, trying to catch his breath. Unlike Harry, Malfoy really does need the oxygen. With effort, Harry takes a step back.

“On the bed.”

The melodious note is absent from his voice, but Malfoy nods and obeys, pulling off his shirt and discarding it as he goes. Harry catches it before it hits the floor, sucks at the maddening patch of blood on the collar. The richness is polluted by soap, but heightened by sweat and the salt of his skin. Harry swears and buries his face in it, trying to concentrate on the neutral smell of the fabric, trying to regain the control that Malfoy effortlessly obliterated.

When he looks up, Malfoy is naked. Harry drops the shirt.

“You know, you can buy those anywhere,” Malfoy says, nodding to the shirt. “It is much nicer than the rags you usually wear, but it’s hardly out of your price range. There’s no need to salivate over it like that.”

“Why would I buy my own? I could just wear yours.”

Malfoy looks affronted. “You’ll do no such thing.”

“Maybe I’ll bite you, let your blood soak into your pretty white shirt until it’s red and dripping, and then I’ll wear it.” Harry groans at the thought. “God, it would drive me mad. You drive me mad.”

He falls to his knees in front of Malfoy. Malfoy’s thighs widen, and Harry runs his hands over them. Harry is warm now, yes, but Malfoy is warmer. His skin is hot under Harry’s palms, the hair fine and soft, thickening and darkening at his crotch.

Harry presses his thumbs into the soft flesh of Malfoy’s inner thighs, watches in fascination as the blood is forced away by the pressure, as it rushes back when he withdraws.

Malfoy pushes his hips up, drawing Harry’s attention to his erect cock. It is thick with blood, throbbing with it. The heady scent of it weaves with the sharp tang of Malfoy’s arousal. Harry bends forwards unthinkingly. Malfoy raises his hips again, angles his dick towards Harry’s mouth. With great difficulty, Harry pulls away. 

“What are you doing?”

“I’m trying not to kill you,” Harry grinds out.

“Why?” Malfoy sounds genuinely confused. “I like it when you lose control.”

“I’ve never lost control around you.” Harry wraps a hand around Malfoy’s dick to stop himself sinking his teeth into it. He pumps up and down, firmly, slowly. “Not since the first time.”

Harry has tried to tell Malfoy, over and over, just how close Harry came to killing him the night Harry became a vampire. He tried to explain five days afterwards, when Malfoy came to Harry’s hospital room at two in the morning and offered Harry his neck. He tried to explain twenty minutes after that, when they’d both rutted themselves to completion and lay panting, covered in blood – when Malfoy’s life had been saved again, this time not by Ron Weasley and a well-aimed _Stupefy_ , but by the dozens of Thirst-Quenching Draughts that Harry had been force-fed by unsmiling Healers. He’s tried to tell him every time since then – whenever Malfoy pushes him, offers himself up, persuades Harry to forgo the potions and chase him over Europe.

Malfoy always dismisses Harry’s warnings. He always insists Harry will stop before it’s too late. He always insists Harry would never hurt him.

He’s wrong.

“ _Ah_ ,” Malfoy says. Harry is still working Malfoy’s cock. Malfoy raises a hand to grasp Harry’s shoulder and Harry has his mouth on Malfoy’s wrist before Malfoy can draw his next shuddering breath. Malfoy’s pulse quivers against Harry’s lips. Harry whines.

“Take some.” Malfoy presses his wrist to Harry’s mouth. “You can, you have it–”

Harry’s teeth sink into Malfoy’s flesh like a knife through butter, and he’s lost again, the luxury of Malfoy’s blood filling his mouth, dribbling down his chin. It’s so hot – it flows down his throat, burning through him – and he groans and digs his teeth deeper, sucks harder, drowns further. Malfoy’s pulse quickens, and he’s making low noises that vibrate against Harry’s skin. Harry can’t tell whether they’re noises of pain or pleasure. He doesn’t care either way. He just wants _more_.

Harry is only vaguely aware when Malfoy’s low noises begin to form words, Harry’s name, chanted over and over – “Harry, Harry, _ah!_ , _shit_ , Harry, _Harry_ ,” – and somewhere in the back of his mind, he dimly recalls the first time Malfoy ever called him that. It was supposed to be an easy job, the sort of thing Robards routinely assigned to new Aurors, the sort of thing that wouldn’t get them into trouble. 

But Harry got into trouble. Walked right into it, into the nest, the feeding frenzy. Malfoy found him two hours later – frantic, cursing him, yelling his name: “ _Harry!_ ”

Malfoy was alone. He didn’t even try to defend himself. Harry nearly killed him.

Harry throws himself backwards, his fangs tearing from Malfoy’s arm, leaving jagged, oozing gashes. “ _Fuck_.”

He’s vibrating, thrumming, _alive_ with Malfoy’s blood. Malfoy holds his wrist up to the torchlight to inspect it.

It’s a mess. Blood winds deep red tracks over pale skin, collecting in thick droplets on the underside of his arm. One of the droplets swells. Falls. Harry whimpers.

Malfoy holds his arm out to Harry. He’s only shaking a little bit. “Heal it,” he demands.

“Yes,” Harry agrees mindlessly. He takes Malfoy’s arm and drags his tongue over the wounds, which knit together under his attention. The taste is another punch to the gut, and Harry licks Malfoy’s arm, savouring every drop, until the only traces of his indulgence are the two small, uneven marks of his teeth.

His eyes rake over Malfoy, searching out more red, more blood, and he’s drawn again to Malfoy’s cock, which stands hard and flushed and tempting. Malfoy notices.

“Let me fuck your mouth,” he says.

“Okay.” Harry needs to hold himself back, to keep himself in check, but he’s no longer sure why. He lets Malfoy’s arm fall and resumes his position on his knees before Malfoy, his hands gripping Malfoy’s thighs, Malfoy’s dick inches from Harry’s mouth.

Harry has just enough presence of mind to ask, strained, “Can I bite?”

Malfoy nods fervently. “Yes – Not the end, not there – But you can – I want you to–”

Harry doesn’t wait for him to finish. He leans forward and swallows Malfoy whole. Malfoy’s cock is swollen with blood, thick with it, and the proximity of it – inside Harry’s mouth, so, so close to his teeth – is torture. Malfoy lets out a low moan, digs his fingers into Harry’s hair. Harry struggles to be careful, for now – covers his teeth with his lips, concentrates on lavishing attention on Malfoy. His blood is so much richer when he’s worked up like this.

Drinking blood turns Harry on. It’s just how his biology works; the blood he drinks rushes through him, fills his whole body, including his cock, which then reacts how a hard cock always reacts: like it wants to be touched, like it wants to fuck. But it’s still not quite the same as getting turned on properly, mentally, having the thought of sex take over your mind for a long, hot moment. That’s a feeling you can still get as a vampire, Harry learned five days after he was turned. It’s a feeling he gets every time, with Malfoy.

His hand drops to his own cock, and he palms himself roughly through his clothes. He shifts, pushing his hips into his hand. Malfoy makes a low noise of encouragement.

“Touch yourself properly,” he says breathlessly. “I want to see you – Please–”

Harry fumbles his trousers down without lifting his mouth from Malfoy’s dick. He doesn’t need to – his jaw doesn’t ever ache, and he doesn’t need to breathe. If it weren’t for the teeth, vampires would be perfectly designed for giving blowjobs.

Though not everyone has a problem with the teeth.

“Bite me,” Malfoy hisses. “Come on – Just a little, just a bit – _Ah!_ ” He flinches as Harry allows his right eyetooth to nick the side of Malfoy’s cock. It’s not deep, but it’s enough, and a thin stream of hot, syrupy blood fills Harry’s mouth. Harry groans and starts to wank himself in earnest.

Malfoy quickly recovers from the flash of pain. He drops backwards, catching himself on his elbows, and thrusts roughly into Harry’s mouth. Harry’s eyes close and he sucks hard, chasing more blood. Malfoy moans, long and low.

“Feels so good,” he says. “Fuck, yes – yes, _Harry_ –”

Even if his mouth weren’t full, Harry wouldn’t be able to reply. He’s soaring, his every nerve tingling. The stream of blood is much thinner than from the savage bites Harry took from Malfoy’s arm, from his neck, but it’s enough – more than enough – to tease Harry, to blaze through him, to cloud his mind, to make him want to suck, to fuck, to _take take take_ –

“Fuck–” Malfoy bucks his hips and Harry easily takes his cock deep into his throat, pulls back to swallow another mouthful of blood, takes it deep again, repeats. “Fuck, Harry, I’m – I’m close–”

Malfoy’s desperate warning heats Harry in a very human way, not cutting through the bloodlust but adding to it. The blood still flows from the cut on Malfoy’s dick and Harry laps at it, swirls the mouthful of blood over Malfoy’s cock, swallows, sucks, swallows, sucks, swallows–

“I’m gonna come,” Malfoy gasps, his stomach tightening, his body curling around Harry’s head. “I’m gonna come, fuck, I’m – I’m gonna–”

His thighs clench, and he groans loudly, deeply, shoving his dick forwards as he spills into Harry’s mouth. Harry drinks it up greedily – Malfoy’s come tastes just as good as his blood, just as hot and full of life. He sucks until the last weak spurt, until Malfoy is squirming and whimpering, then he sucks some more, savouring the post-orgasm pepper of Malfoy’s blood.

When Harry finally lifts his head, Malfoy is sprawled on the bed, his limbs loose. Harry retains just enough of himself to focus on Malfoy’s pulse points – his heartbeat is fast, but strong enough – then he rolls Malfoy onto his front and leans over him.

“I’m gonna fuck you,” Harry murmurs in his ear. “I’m gonna fuck you and I’m gonna bite you and I’m gonna suck you _dry_.”

Malfoy moans weakly. 

Harry drags his nose over the sweaty dip of Malfoy’s neck, licks at it, doesn’t bite. Not yet. He sits back. Tugs off his shirt.

“Get on your knees,” he says.

Malfoy doesn’t move.

“On your knees, Malfoy,” Harry says again, and the melodious note dances through his words. A visible shiver runs down Malfoy’s spine. He gathers his hands and knees under himself and straightens his arms. His shoulder blades flex.

God, he’s so hot – in both senses. He’s gorgeous, laid out before Harry like a feast, but the _warmth_ of him is overwhelming. Harry wants to feel that warmth wrapped around him. He wants to be inside it. He pushes his finger into the tight heat of Malfoy’s arse. His cock does a very human twitch.

“You’re already–”

“Yeah.” Malfoy pushes back onto Harry’s finger. It slides in easily.

Harry doesn’t know how to deal with the fact that Malfoy went upstairs from the tavern not to drink a Blood-Replenishing Potion, but to prepare his arsehole for Harry to fuck. So he doesn’t try to deal with it. Instead, he pulls Malfoy upright, so Malfoy’s warm back is flush against Harry’s chest. Malfoy’s head falls onto Harry’s shoulder, baring the long line of his neck. Harry tightens his grip.

“Where’s your wand?” he rasps.

Malfoy makes a confused noise, twists his head. Harry moves his hand up to circle Malfoy’s throat.

“Malfoy. Where is your wand?”

“I don’t–” Malfoy swallows. His Adam’s apple bobs against Harry’s palm. “Trouser pocket.”

Malfoy is leaning bonelessly against him, but Harry darts to the pile of Malfoy’s clothes and is back in position before Malfoy starts to fall. He shoves the wand into Malfoy’s hand.

“Listen to me.” Speech is not coming easily. He doesn’t sound like himself at all. The melodious note is now less of a note, and more of a chorus – a harmony of inhumanity that Malfoy is powerless to resist. “If I take too much – if you feel like you might faint – hex me, and drink a Blood-Replenishing Potion straight away. Do you understand?”

“Yeah.” Malfoy shivers, grinds his arse back against Harry, moans. “Your voice is so nice. You feel so good. Please–”

Malfoy turns his head blindly and they fall into a kiss – open-mouthed, sloppy. Harry keeps kissing him when he takes himself in hand, lines himself up and pushes, slow and aching, into the burning heat of Malfoy’s body.

Malfoy whines – he’s so eager, so pliant – and Harry is consumed by him. He’s desperate to sink his teeth into Malfoy, but sinks his cock in instead, pulling out and fucking forwards, hard. Malfoy lets out a cry – the kiss breaks and Malfoy’s head falls back onto Harry’s shoulder – his hand rises to grip the back of Harry’s neck. It’s good – it presses them together, stretches Malfoy out so Harry can run his hand down Malfoy’s chest. The scars he’s given Malfoy are raised bumps under his fingers. The zigzag of _Sectumsempra_. The pinpricks of Harry’s teeth that litter Malfoy’s whole body. Punctuation marks of ownership.

Malfoy’s pulse thuds, and an echo of it thrums through Harry, as if the blood Harry has already taken is answering the call of Malfoy’s heartbeat. Harry buries his nose in Malfoy’s neck. He smells so _good_. He smells–

“ _Fuck_ , Harry–” Malfoy says, his voice rising on a sharp inward thrust. “Fuck – Talk to me again – So hot when you sound like that–”

Harry growls, forces his cock harder, deeper. He can’t. He can’t talk when he’s like this, when the vampire is in control. There’s no room in his head for words. It’s just _Malfoy_ and _blood_ and _hot_ and _take_. 

“Fuck, please – God, I’m getting hard again – Wanna hear you – Order me around, _please_ –”

Harry’s rhythm doesn’t falter as his hand drops to Malfoy’s cock. It hardens further at Harry’s touch, blood rushing under the delicate skin and, god, Harry wants him, wants him so much, can’t _think_ –

“You’re going to come again,” he hears himself growl. “But not until I tell you to.”

Malfoy’s cock jerks and he whimpers, his fingers scrabbling on the back of Harry’s neck.

“I could kill you. It would be so easy. It would be so good. Wouldn’t it be a good way to go, Draco? With my dick in your arse and my teeth in your neck? Would you like that?” 

“ _Yes_ – It would – Would feel so good–”

Harry’s mouth opens against Malfoy’s throat. He’s so close to giving in, to letting himself have this. “You taste like sex,” he groans, his lips dragging torturously over hot skin, “like music and Firewhisky and fucking. God, I’m obsessed with you. I wanna devour you–”

“You can.” Malfoy is almost sobbing. “You can, please–”

“ _Yes_ ,” Harry hisses, and Malfoy gasps, mindlessly fucks Harry’s fist. High, desperate noises fall from his mouth – _please_ and _fuck_ and _Harry_ – and Harry keeps taking, keeps moving his hand, keeps pounding into him. His bloodlust and his human lust are one giant, swirling entity, dragging him to the edge, closer and closer and–

“I’m gonna bite you,” he snarls. “Gonna suck you dry–”

“Yes – Please–”

“Gonna fill you with my come and taste it in your blood–”

“ _Yes_ – Harry – _Harry–_ ”

“Yeah – Say my name when you come – You can come now – Come for me – Come–”

Harry stabs his teeth into Malfoy’s neck and Malfoy lets out a shout – “ _Harry!_ ” – strangled, like it’s been wrenched from him. His body seizes and his blood _gushes_ into Harry’s mouth. It’s euphoric, unlike anything Harry ever felt when he was human, and it tips him over the edge too; his grip tightens and he’s growling, forcing his dick as deep as he can, filling Malfoy with his come while Malfoy’s blood fills his mouth, his throat, his body.

The moment stretches, an endless high. Until Malfoy sags, and Harry dimly realises that Malfoy is quieter, that his skin has become cooler, clammier.

The spike of fear is more effective than a wooden stake. Harry carefully withdraws himself from Malfoy and closes the wounds, barely tasting the last, glorious mouthful.

Malfoy whines a weak protest, and the relief of hearing his voice is almost as delicious as the taste of his blood.

“Shh, you’re okay,” Harry says. He manoeuvres Malfoy around, props him against the pillows. “You’re okay. Here, drink this.”

“’Course I’m okay,” Malfoy mumbles. “And m’not drinking blood … s’gross…”

“So gross,” Harry agrees, licking the last sweet traces of Malfoy from his lips. “But this isn’t blood; it’s your potion.” He lets his voice slip into melodious encouragement. “Drink it.”

Malfoy allows Harry to guide the phial to his mouth. Almost immediately, a pink flush colours his cheeks. Harry eyes it with interest, but the urge to _devour_ is easy to control.

“Feel better?” he asks, once Malfoy has finished.

“‘Better’?” Malfoy repeats. His voice is stronger, and the knot in Harry’s chest loosens. “I’d hardly say a few mouthfuls of Blood-Replenishing Potion is _better_ than two orgasms sucked out of me by an immortal Saviour of the Wizarding World, but sure, if you like.”

“I’m not immortal,” Harry starts to say, but Malfoy curves his body into Harry’s and pulls him into a kiss. It would be easy to resist the tug of it, but Harry doesn’t want to. He presses himself against Malfoy – warm again, soft again – and lets himself sink into the decadence of Malfoy’s mouth.

Malfoy is still clumsy, and his tongue catches on the point of Harry’s tooth. Blood spurts into their joined mouths – Harry hums appreciatively, but licks the wound closed and pulls away.

“You taste vile,” Malfoy complains, wrinkling his nose.

“You don’t.” Harry grins, and pecks Malfoy’s disgusted moue. He stretches out on the bed. “So, d’you reckon five hours and twenty-three minutes is quick enough to prove to Robards that I’m useful even without a wand?”

“Hmm,” Malfoy says in mock thought. He settles against Harry. “I think you could stand to be trained up for another few months. If you can cope with the hardship.”

Harry’s eyes linger on the scar-littered line of Malfoy’s neck. “Yeah,” he says, and smiles. “I think I could manage that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Say hi on [Tumblr](http://fluxweeed.tumblr.com)! ❤️


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